


A Gratuitous Spideypool Fic

by thotteri



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aunt May is a stoner bisexual, Bottom Storage, Bottom!Wade Wilson, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Breakup Haircut, Cocaine, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Drugs, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MJ is a stoner lesbian, Mental Health Issues, No forced reveals, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Original Character(s), Overstimulation, Parody, Peter Parker does Meth, Peter Parker is Trans, Peter and Wade are equally dumb, Receding Hairline, Recreational Drug Use, Religiously, Rocket Racoon Cameo, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Smut, They all do weed, Top!Peter Parker, Weed, Whump, and never again, and not so recreational drug use, elopement, once - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-12-29 02:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18298310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thotteri/pseuds/thotteri
Summary: Peter Parker's life is a mess. Half the time, he can't even remember to keep the hyphen in his hero name. Worst of all, he can't sleep at night without his spidey sense invading his dreams to broadcast the worst of Queens.Can a certain red-and-black merc—No. Just no.





	1. Wade

**Author's Note:**

> i love every single spideypool fic i've ever read, hence this.

{I want to have sex.} [I want to murder someone.]

Through the narrow spaces between soccer mom cars and taxis filed neatly over Queensboro Bridge, a motorcycle shining in still-wet and exuberantly red paint roars. Wade Wilson leans and bends with ease (and a few chunks of flesh catching on wing mirrors), watching in anticipation as the needle flicks towards the illegal end of the speedometer. ‘And I want a chimichanga,’ he says. ‘But I swear to God, if we don’t make it in time, I will spend the week with my own head–decapitated!–up my ass and orgasm to your complaints,’

{Please no.} [I’d love to see it happen.]

White’s insubordination incites a growl from Wade as he brings his right hand over his own head and grips his neck, but before he can follow through on his threats, a whoop echoes overhead. The glee that surges through him pushes his fragmented lips into a smile too wide under his mask. ‘That’s him!’ he gasps, and swerves right into the railings of the bridge, flying off through one of the gaps. A tear and blood soaring through the air evidences that his calculations _might_ have been off and he _maybe_ just lost an arm. But that’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is–

‘ _Spide-e-ey_!’

The lean, red-and-blue, glorified furry vigilante glides over East River, legs thrust into the air as he holds a thin webs string tightly. He’s too in the moment to stop or catch Wade, who had flung himself right at him. The web snaps. Spider-man flails, desperately clamping at the center of his palms. What’s left of his web fluid darts too high over the bridge and nothing more comes out. They crash into the water beneath them. They die.

{Quit being a dramatic fuck.}

Wade comes to the surface with a gasp and intense pain all over the left side of his body. He cackles when the arteries at the stump of his shoulder spray into the river, which would have been red by now if not for the persistent murky-brown color that came from dumping. Moments later, Spider-man resurfaces similarly, albeit with all limbs intact and none of the amusement.

‘What the hell, Wade!’ Spider-man snaps, the white patches on his mask animated with anger. ‘What the hell was that!?’

‘That, That was awesome,’ he laughs (chokes, because it’s an ordeal to breathe properly when water’s weighing down his suit). ‘Did you see that? That was amazing. I was amazing. It was–’

‘Insane, Wade,’ Spider-man shakes his head as he speaks. ‘You’re goddamn insane.’ He pinches the bridge of his nose over his mask, like that’s the one thing holding him back from webbing Wade up and drowning him. After a sigh, he says, ‘Hold on to me.’

{Wow, do you think anger makes him horny?} [It certainly makes us horny.]

‘Does anger make you horny?’ Wade asks. The white patches narrow, suggesting a negative answer.

{Or maybe positive.}

Spider-man raises his arms above the water and Wade thinks a punch is coming. Instead, Spider-man slaps at his own wrist. ‘It doesn’t make me horny,’ he finally answers. ‘But unless you want to become another body in East River, I suggest you hold on to me.’

{What a scary tone! I am officially terrified and aroused.}

[Aren’t you always terrified and aroused?]

‘I am officially terrified and aroused!’ Wade echoes, swimming to latch onto Spider-man. The latter stares for a moment at the bloody stump where Wade’s arm once was, but says nothing. Wade latches his elbow around Spider-man’s neck and leans his head forward. Which is a bad idea, because Spider-man’s neck smells like dead pets and old socks and rotting corpses and moldy takeout.

{This might just be your new kink.}

[Wade, I will personally make sure we never come back if you make this your new kink.]

‘God, you stink,’ Wade whispers, before he’s flung forward, attached to Spider-man, over metal railing and lands face first on the greenway. He rolls onto his back. ‘Ouch.’

Spider-man is more graceful, landing in a knee and heel-

{Superhero landing!}

-before standing and–well, he looks damn hot from below, especially when the city skyline outlines his neck and the setting sun forms a crown around his head as stares off into the distance.

{Hot damn!}

‘I know, right?’ Wade replies. That seems to remind Spider-man that Wade exists, because the former is now facing–pacing towards the latter and Wade slowly withdraws, crawling backwards on his single palm and butt. ‘Hey, listen-’

Spider-man slaps him before he can defend himself, verbally or physically. ‘What did the hell did you that for?’ Spider-man yells. ‘We could have died!’

Wade rubs his cheek. ‘I can’t die and you can swim.’ he mumbles. ‘Besides, it was funny.’

‘No, it wasn’t!’

{Yes, it was.}

‘It was insane and reckless and-and-and–’

‘ _And-and-and_ ,’ Wade mimics. It’s a struggle to ignore the thrumming behind his ribs because Spider-man is really cool and there’s a little nugget at the back of Wade’s mind—neither voiced nor written in boxes— _You fucked up again. Yet another hero hates you_. The fear slips petulance into shaking words. ‘I know I did.’ he snaps at that nugget and then spits at Spider-man, ‘Jesus Christ, Webs. Did your parents die from having fun? Is that your origin story?’

Spider-man stands again, spins, paces and turns back and paces towards Wade again. This time, Wade is prepared for a slap, but words come stinging instead.

‘You think using humor as a shield against the guilt of your actions is a good plan and it probably works out well for you, but keep it up and you know what happens? You end up so detached from the world that no-one loves you and then, you die alone. That’s what’s going to happen to you. You’re going to die alone.’

Tears _might_ have slipped from Wade’s eyes and he’s glad that a mask is over his face. Spider-man is, after all, on the list of the coolest people in the world and hearing the reason why you suck from your idol is usually heartbreaking.

{He didn’t have to be so mean.} [How long did it take him to come up with that?]

‘How long did it take you to come up with that?’ Wade echoes, words trembling under the weight of a sob. Spider-man doesn’t reply to that, simply shoots a web off into the distance and flings himself a way. ‘Yeah, fuck you too!’ Wade screams at the spider quickly coming a dot in the distance.

A young woman and her child stop at that–or maybe the fact that his shoulder looks like strawberry jelly. ‘Keep walking, Mom!’ he yells at her, and she swings the babe into her arms, promptly running away.


	2. Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peter parker possibly picked a poor choice in career

Yelling at an insane mercenary, Peter learns, isn’t the guilt-free stress-relief that it sounds like. He was particularly bitter after a long day (long week, long month, long _year_ ) and swinging over 59th Street Bridge is arguably the only thing he’s still capable of enjoying. So getting yeeted out of the air by literally one of the worst costumed biodynamic people to exist was enough to make Peter want to slaughter everyone in a 100m radius. But watching Wade hang his head, hearing his voice crack, shot a hole through Peter’s heart. Wade Wilson was never a bad person. Dumb, yes. Violent, yes. Mentally unstable, yes. But that could, would, should never warrant the kind of hurtful things that Peter said and now he felt equally dumb, violent and mentally unstable. Peter knew exactly what it was like to exist on the fringes of a society where everyone who comes into contact with you finds all sorts of twisted ways to ostracize you. He still yelled.

‘You’re fucking sick,’ he mutters as he swings over yet another newly-opened coffee shop and lands on the edge of an apartment tower. ‘So fucking sick.’ The constant and vibrant buzz of Queens pervades his mind, pushing his regrets aside to broadcast every single noise in the city. He closes his eyes and focuses on _spidey sense_ , which he was getting tired of referring to by such a juvenile term even if it was only in his mind.

Some teenagers are breaking into a liquor store.

There’s a pipe with the potential for a gas leak at a coffee shop.

A fight at outside a bar is getting out of control.

Some guy’s cornered a lady by an alleyway.

Peter no longer swings about, hurriedly prioritizing crimes and trying to save everybody all at once. He makes phone calls, adheres to bureaucracy. ‘And are you certain this information is accurate?’ they always ask, like anyone could possibly give the addresses of the crimes scenes in such an orderly manner without being certain of their accuracy. But he answers politely nonetheless.

It’s the alleyways that are a problem, because (Peter learnt when he was 19, failing finals and first decided to let the police do their thing, which led to the murder of a family) no GPS shows exactly how to get to them without sending police cars around the block several times. He stands, leaps, lets the air whip and bite at his suit, before shooting a web and soaring over busy neighborhoods. Honestly, he doesn’t like soaring through the city as much as he does over rivers. He can hear the dozens of phones being whipped out to record and snap his presence. He hears slurs, cat-calls, narrowly misses a window of a sleek skyscraper. He swings past cars and buses until he’s at the alleyway where he hears the guy harassing a lady. Up close, their conversation isn’t going as simply as he had hoped.

‘I need to know where it is, Maeby,’ the guy says. He’s short, lean, being swallowed up by an attire obviously too large for him. The slurs in his words and alcohol on his breath suggest he’s drunk. He’s got a fist on the wall, towering over who Peter assumes is Maeby—similarly short, but visibly younger, pudgy, actually fits her clothes. There’s an ugly bruise over her temple and blood slipping from the corner of her lip. Peter wants to tell himself it’s smudged lipstick, take comfort in the fact that he came before things got messy, but he knows it’s a lie. The metallic stench of it won’t let him lie. Things are already messy.

Maeby doesn’t falter though. ‘I already told you, I sold it. You’re never getting it back. You can tell Chris to suck it. Fuck you.’ She finishes with a slob of spit landing on the guy’s chin. She doesn’t see it like Peter does; the way the guy’s muscles tense up at his brachium, his whole arm blurring as he raises his fist to get another hit in. Peter doesn’t wait for it. He shoots a web out at the fist, flicks his wrist back to send the guy flying into the wall. He leaps forward, landing a kick on the guy’s chest while he’s still against the wall. The moment his foot connects with his chest, he’s no longer in a dark alleyway stinking of piss.

_The sun shines brightly behind his shoulder. Crowds of onlookers cheer his name as he holds his foot over some villain’s chest._

_‘You good?’ he asks, turning away from the villain._

Peter blinks fervently. He’s in the alleyway again. Now that he’s closer to the girl, he can see more bruises across her, but Peter tries as hard as he can not to focus on it. ‘Do you-do you need help?’ The words leaving his mouth are awkward syllables struggling to move past the grogginess of slipping in and out of memories he’s not sure are real. ‘Like, getting home? I think, I can get you to—’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ she snaps. Of course, there was no way everyone in Queens could know who Pete-no- _Spider-man_ was, but being asked such a question made Peter’s neck grow warm. Who was he, indeed?

He opens his mouth, hoping for some entertaining quip to cut the awkwardness, but all that comes out is a lame ‘I…’

Maeby doesn’t wait for his balls to descend. ‘You get the fuck away from me,’ she says, holding her bags tightly at her side before running out of the dark, stinking alleyway. Peter sighs, looks over at the guy he had saved her from. He’s not quite sure he saved anyone. He webs him up, phones the police (apologizes profusely when the officer sighs at each piece of information given), before tapping at the center his palm to swing away.

Nothing comes out. ‘No, no, no,’ he mumbles, hitting his wrists in hopes of something coming out. Nothing comes out.

New York City does not have the time to care at all for the clothes you wear. The trains are too full for anyone to even see it. Problem is, it also doesn’t care for the homeless guys making direct eye contact with a fist around their genitals. Peter wishes he could bleach his own mind every time he took the train too late into the night.


	3. Peter

Spider-man becomes Peter Parker at half past 1 am when he rides the elevator up one of the few dilapidated apartment towers left in a secluded and ungentrified neighbourhood in Queens. The halls smell like uncertified pets, weed and sex. He loves the place. 

 

At the end of the hall, his aunt’s door is open before he knocks and the scent of fresh cookies fills his lungs. Peter exhales longingly.

 

‘They’re edibles,’ May says. Her legs are stretched over the arm of the sofa in front of the TV, where two old men argue on a panel. ‘And they’re not for you.’

 

Peter closes the door behind him, doesn’t bother slipping off his shoes. ‘Thanks, Mom,’ he says. ‘Are you high and is there anything to eat?’ He walks over to the kitchen, where groceries are scattered over the island. Despite May’s warnings, he eats a cookie. 

 

‘No and yes, but don’t touch the cookies.’ she calls from the sofa. The drawl on her words suggest otherwise. ‘I’ve got my book club coming over at six tomorrow. Maybe don’t come around in that suit of yours?’

 

Peter isn’t listening to what she says. Instead, he searches the refrigerator for dinner. Everything is neatly packed into tupperware and he hates using the microwave. He settles for five slices of plain bread.

 

‘And take a shower,’ May continues as he passes through the parlour to his bedroom. ‘You smell like that week Denise’s husband left her after catching her camming for money. Boy, was that wild! I remember when…’

 

She goes on to recite the history of her friend’s drama, but Peter doesn’t stick around to hear it. Once he’s in his room, Peter slowly peels his mask off, finding some sick satisfaction in the sound of elastic tearing from his acne-riddled face. The air that hits his spots is painful, but refreshing. Taking off his suit is much more tedious task that frequently tore the fabric at the underarms. When he had made his suit, he was much thinner, obsessed with good posture and didn’t need to put much thought into getting his legs past the binder part of the suit. Now though, the binder trapped his thighs and only after another hole forms under the arms of the suit does it come off. He’s glad no villain so far has been fixated on armpits. 

 

Peter throws on his baggiest sweatsuit and collapses on his bed. Only when he lies down does he realize all the things wrong with his body. That his face and chest and wrist are insanely itchy and maybe wearing a spandex suit unwashed for four years straight is a pretty dumbass plan. Yeah, sleeping won’t work like this.

 

He gets up to spray a cheap diy witch-hazel mixture that Redditors swore by over the reddened parts of his body before he lies down again. 

 

Right, sleeping. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. That girl, Maeby, had such a thick East Coast accent, there was no way she didn’t know who Spider-man was. Peter snatches his phone from under his pillow, opens Twitter and searches  _ #Spiderman _ , filters through the recent posts, scrolling past everything not in English. Then he catches a post from  _ maebitch3. _

 

_ istg america is watching every little shit we do, like tryna predict who will predict a crime next. was fighting with my man behind this bar when out of nowhere this red spandex fgot sticks him to a wall, proceeds to beat him within an inch of his life, then is like (1/6) _

 

He doesn't bother reading the rest of the thread. So she lied about not knowing who he was, possibly. That was fine. It’s not like every person in New York owes him honesty or respect. He is, after all, just a creepy guy in a mask. This is fine. Peter locks his phone and turns over. The voices from the television get louder and louder.

 

_ They’re mutants, that’s what they are. Arresting people on the basis, no, Samuel, let me finish, arresting people on the basis that they aren’t using fancy words like ‘biodynamic’ to dress up what they are— _

 

_ ‘Mutant’ is a slur, that’s a slur you’re using, these are people who have been outcast and oppressed— _

 

Peter shoots up, ready to destroy the TV set altogether, but once he’s sitting upright in bed, it’s barely audible. He sighs. 

 

Sleep. He can totally do it. He lies back down, closes his eyes, regresses to a four year old and imagines sheep hopping over a conveniently low wooden gate. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7—

 

_ Help me, Spider-man! Help, somebody. _

 

_ No one’s going to save you, nobody can hear you. _

 

_ It’s going to be alright, just relax. _

 

_ Put your fucking hands up, do not touch your pockets, I will shoot you if you move. _

 

_ Please, please, help me. _

 

Peter sits up again. Sleep is impossible when the entirety of Queens decides to broadcast itself when his eyes are closed. Resigned, he slips his shoes on, puts on his mask and spare web shooters, and heads out of his bedroom window.

 


	4. Peter

There just isn’t anything like swinging, Peter notes for the millionth time as buildings blur past him. The momentum, folding and unfolding his entire body, the tug of the web on all the muscles in his arm. It’s incomparable. Flying comes in close, but it’s just not as immersive. Then again, Peter’s only flown crashing planes so he’s not sure if how valid his sentiments are.

 

He drops out of the air and onto the exterior of an apartment hastily constructed above an abandoned bank. It’s a terrible idea, as the brick digs into his palms and he’s pretty sure yet yet another blister will form and weirdly enough, his blisters did not heal like his wounds. Ignoring the pain, Peter crawls towards a window, raises it and climbs in. It’s always unlocked, because his friends are the bestest, most trusting, kindest-

 

“Peter?” Ned turns in his bed, searching for his phone. When he finds it, he turns the flashlight on and shines it on Peter. It’s a lot brighter than Peter expects, but he doesn’t cringe; puts his fists on his waist and jokes instead.

 

“Yes, ‘tis I,” he says with a deep voice. “Your friendly neighbourhood-” 

 

“It’s three a.m.,” comes MJ’s voice, who peeks her head over the edge of her bed on top of Ned’s.

 

“I know it’s three a.m—”

 

“Is that Spider-man?” Jennifer says, shoving glasses haphazardly onto her face. “Hi, Spider-man!” She bats her eyelids, though it’s not very appealing given the redness and puffiness of her eyes. Peter feels a little guilty thinking that, since everyone in the bedroom knew of her crush, and that being the only reason why she moved in, paid bills.

 

“Hi, Jenny. Look, guys, look what I found online.” He whips out his phone, desperate to look cool, and plays the first thing he finds on YouTube. 

 

“Aw,” Ned coos.

 

MJ is far less amused. “You came all the way here to show us a cat video?” she asks, incredulous. “Why not DM it?”

 

And now Peter feels even more stupid, because he definitely did not think this whole thing through. “I just, you know. . .” He pauses, hopes someone will fill in for him. Ned only blinks while Jennifer sits up excitedly in her bed on the other side of the room. He clears his throat. “You know, we just. . .we spend way too much time with like, screens, and like, why DM it when I can see you in real life. Technology is just so. . .bad.” 

 

“You realize you’re showing us a video on a screen, right?” MJ says.

 

“And the video was taken with another screen,” Ned adds.

 

“And it was uploaded through another screen!” Jennifer’s addition is way too cheery to not be malicious. 

 

Peter’s whole face is on fire, no doubt a result of all those zits and pimples. He slips his fingers under his mask to scratch in spite of what dozens of beauty blogs have told him. “You guys, you guys are just. . .too lame to appreciate a wonderful video—”

 

“Cat video.”

 

“At three a.m.”

 

“You guys suck,” he snaps and points at MJ. “You weren’t even sleeping!”

 

“Jennifer was.” she retorts. 

 

“I was!” Jennifer echoes with her honeyed voice. 

 

“Yeah, well, when a genocidal metal-bender travels to this time and decides that all non-biodynamics need to die, guess who won’t be there to save. . .” Peter falters at the sound of Ned’s snoring. Jennifer turns over as well, mumbling a soft ‘night, Spider-man’. MJ taps at her phone insanely fast thumbs. “Fine, then.” He turns around, lifts his foot to the windowsill. 

 

“By the way,” MJ starts, “Your bedroom laboratory—”

 

“Actual Laboratory.”

 

“—Bedroom laboratory hasn’t been paid for for over six months, so I Airbnb’d it—”

 

Peter drops his foot from the windowsill. “You did  _ what _ ?”

 

“—Because like, Jennifer’s whole camming thing only brings in so much.”

 

“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” he paces back a little, tiptoes so his nose reaches over the edge of MJ’s bed and puts his hand over her phone screen.

 

“What?”

 

“You said you’d wait for me,” he whines. 

 

“That was six months ago,” MJ attempts tugging her phone out of Peter’s grip.

 

“And I have the money now.” That gets MJ to stop tugging her phone. She stares at his him, and it finally occurs to Peter his mask is probably the reason his face is so hot.

 

“Really?” MJ asks. Peter nods. “Seven grand? Right now?”

 

“Well, not, not right now, but like. . .” The idea of holding any more than three hundred dollars at any given time is so baffling, he can’t estimate a date.

 

“You have your aunt’s place, though, so you won’t be homeless or anything,” MJ gets her phone back from underneath Peter’s palm and continues typing at alarming speeds. 

 

“I can’t make web fluid at my aunt’s place. And all my things are here. Wait, what did you do with my things?”

“Sent them to the Avengers, of course. Also,” She stops typing to look at Peter again. “Tony Stark is literally a billionaire. Why don’t you just call him up? Ask for financial help? Hack his dozens of accounts?”

 

“If your father figure was a billionaire, would you ask to him to pay the bills?”

 

“I’d buy the entire building and get into real estate.”

 

“See, that’s why I’m Spider-man and you’re. . .” Peter hesitates, incapable of finishing his quip. “Something. I’ll come up with it later.”

 

“Well, don’t tell me when you do.” MJ puts her phone away and turns over. “‘M going to bed. Take a shower when you get home.”

 

Peter huffs. “I don’t stink worse than you. Do I? MJ? Em-ja-a-ay?” He taps her shoulder tentatively. She doesn’t respond.

 

“Right, cold shoulder, I see how it is,” he says, hoping she might rise for a snappy retort. Still, nothing. "M'kay. Good night."  


He really, really wishes he had an insomnia buddy. 

 


	5. Wade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been years

{B̴̰̕ā̷̲̠̘-̷̲͓̉͒̚a̵̭̟͒͐̕d̴̜̫̄/̸̞̂̐/̶̧̂̐̍D̷̙̂̓̕a̶͇̋-̷̡̇͜͠ͅa̶̧̛̦̳̓̓d̵͖̩̲̉̊̆.̶̛̮̜̤̾ ̸̝̥͙͝Ỏ̸̦̺͙̊̐ṵ̷̢͍̓͘ȓ̵̬͜ ̶̜̎̂͒b̴̛̤̬̐͊a̸̳͚̗͐̔b̴̩͋̈́̍y̶̯͍̺̿ ̷͎̤̅ḧ̶̩̙̥̋a̸̼̐-̸̳̼͍͌ă̷͇͐t̶̡̨̲́̽ȅ̴̟̲s̷̡̺̤̑̎̄ ̵͓̺̾̚e̷͍͔̽̄̇é̴̹̼̭́é̶͉̬͔̎?̵̱͒̃}

 

[47 65 74 74 69 6e 67 20 64 72 75 6e 6b 20 73 6f 6c 76 65 73 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 2e 20 47 6f 20 62 61 63 6b 2c 20 74 65 6c 6c 20 68 65 72 20 79 6f 75 20 6c 6f 76 65 20 68 65 72 2e ]

 

“I ca-an’t.” Wade laments. “Everything about her is just so, so wonderful. And she cut her hair even though I loved it before and she looks better without it and, and she’s so smart and I, I’ve  _ ruined _ her.”

 

“I’m not your shrink,” Weasel says. “Please go away.”

 

Visiting his daughter again had left Wade in a state. A state, as in face down on the cedar counter of Sister Margaret’s for a few (11 and counting) hours, alternating between downing bottles of rubbing alcohol and pressing a blade to Weasel’s neck whenever Weasel refused to clear out the supply closet for more. It’s not that Wade and his daughter have a bad relationship persay—Eleanor greets him every time with a bright smile and warm hug—but Wade feels that no-one could even tolerate him when every inch of his skin is covered in fresh, mutating scars. So whenever Eleanor calls him  _ Dad _ , what he hears is  _ Drop dead, you insignificant fuck.  _

 

Wade chokes just thinking about her actually saying it to his face and Weasel leans away. “Are you gonna puke?” he asks. “Please don’t puke. That’d be awful. Also, I really need you pull yourself together.”

Wade does his best to hold his stomach down as he speaks. “Why? Is it so you can use me for another job?” 

 

“Uh, yeah, that’s literally why I called you here. Only I forgot it was Tuesday.”

 

“I’m sick of murdering people,” Wade slurs. “Count me out. I’m never murdering anyone again.”

 

{Y̶͖̎e̷̡̼͒s̶̝̏͂,̵̱̠͙̃́͊ ̴̞̇̈w̵̯͙̑ẽ̷̘̮͔͊́ ̴̖̖̓̊͝a̴̡͇̩͋͐r̴̺͗͋͠e̶͓̊̎̌?̶̻͈͂̀}

 

[44 6f 6e 27 74 20 74 65 6c 6c 20 6c 69 65 73 2c 20 64 75 6d 62 61 73 73 2e]

 

Weasel takes no notice of his words, instead pulling an envelope from under the counter. “One of my friends says a certain organization is planning to pull some apocalyptic shit and he will personally pay half a million to not see that happen.” He slides the envelope to Wade, who gasps as he sees the contents.

 

“ _ Hydra _ !”

 

“What’s that?”

 

[50 6f 6f 72 20 77 72 69 74 69 6e 67 2c 20 74 6f 20 62 65 20 68 6f 6e 65 73 74 2e 0a]

 

Wade stares hard at the red tentacled skull. “I. . .Don’t remember?”

 

The discomfort and confusion in Wade’s posture has Weasel paranoid. He places a palm over the gun in his pocket. “Instant mind-wiping?”

 

“No, I literally have no idea what they do. It’s like, I passed their advert on the road. Or maybe I read about them on Google. Do you think Google has a Hydra day? That seems likely.”

 

“Google most certainly doesn’t celebrate apocalyptic organizations.”

 

“Hm.” Wade rests his head on the counter again. “I think I’m gonna puke now.”

 

He finds himself shifted by heavy hands out of the bar and into an alleyway, where red and black dots obscure the sky. He has no idea what time it is and doubles over as acid burns through his throat and out of his mouth. There’s a little blood in there too. 

 

“There, there,” the large man who steadied him says. One of his hands stroke Wade’s back. “Take it easy. You know your daughter loves you right?”

 

Wade spins on his heels once he heaves up the last of all the alcohol. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

 

The man’s eyebrows knit, though his smile doesn’t falter. “It’s me, Buck. From the bar? You were literally crying on my shoulder last—”

 

“I’ve never met you,  _ Buck _ ,” Wade snaps. “Touch my back again and you won’t have anything to jerk off with. Also, what time is it?”

 

Buck looks at his watch. “Almost five a.m. You should head home. If you need any help,” He doesn’t finish his sentence, only smiles. Does he not see the various guns around Wade’s waist?

 

“I don’t, thanks. I believe it’s time for you to exist the scene now,” And Wade hopes the bitterness in his words gets his point across. Unfortunately, Buck doesn’t even frown, just waves a little and leaves. 

 

{Y̸u̸c̷k̷,̴ ̶I̴ ̵h̵a̵t̵e̷ ̴n̶i̵ce people.}

 

[Because they remind you 01110111 01101000 01100001 01110100 a terrible person you are?]

 

“Because half the time, they only exist to poison us, seduce us, or both.” Wade says. “Especially the guys. Have you ever seen a nice guy that didn’t want our dick?”

 

{Or o̶u̸r̶ ̷t̷i̴t̴s̴ that one time we had them.}

 

[What about 01000011 01100001 01110000 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101110 America?]

 

“Um, have you ever seen Captain America unfreeze himself to stop Genoshan genocides? No, because he only cares about America.”

 

{I thought we l̶i̵k̷e̴ Captain America.}

 

[We do. That ass?]

 

“Totally a—” 

 

Wade is startled out of his conversation with the boxes a giant thud echoes throughout the alleyway behind him, followed by a tired groan. He turns and finds his absolute favorite Avenger limping from a dumpster. 

 

“O-M-G, it’s Spidey!” Wade squeals and throws his palms under his chin. “What are the odds? And what is that suit? Did you get a contract with Nike?”

 

Although his trademark (did he remember to trademark it?) mask is on, Spider-man had substituted the rest of his suit for a black sweatshirt and sweatpants that barely fit him. White tick marks ran down his sides. Before he can open his mouth to say anything (if indeed he has a mouth under that mask and not those weird finger-teeth things spiders typically have), Spider-man comes running behind Wade, which elicits another euphoric squeal from the mercenary. This one has his original suit on, though in black and red, not red and white.

 

“Wow, how lucky am I to have found myself in the middle of a quantum split,” Wade gushes. “Nike Spider-man and Black Spider-man—”

 

“How do you know I’m black?” Black Spider-man blurts. 

 

“Your suit, of course. Are you black?”

“No, I’m not black.” Black Spider-man hesitates. “Not that I’m not black. Or not not-black. I, uh, don’t have skin.”

 

Nike Spider-man slaps his own face. “Spider-man, please don’t interact with this guy. He’s bad.”

 

{Hey, we’re not bad!} [The correct term is morally grey.]

 

“Yeah, I’m morally bad!” Deadpool objects, realizing his mistake too late. “By the way, I also don't have skin. Wanna talk about that over coffee, Black Spider-man?”

 

“W-What?” Black Spider-man splutters, while Nike Spider-man’s sighs are audible. 

 

“What are you even doing here? Both of you.” Nike Spider-man demands.

 

“Well, Pe-I mean, Spider-man, other Spider-man,” Black Spider-man begins. “Finals are coming up and I got an 85 on my test last week and my dad was all,  _ no more going out at night _ , so now I can only fight crime early before I head to sch—” He stops to glance at Wade and drops the tone of his voice half an octave. “Work. At school. I work at a school. I’m a teaching person. Teacher.”

 

“I’m also a teaching person. Wanna talk about that over—”

 

“Stop asking Spider-man out!” Nike Spider-man snaps. 

 

“Why? Are you jealous?” Wade gasps. “Did you come here from a conglomerate-ruled dystopian future just to stop me from dating this newer and cooler Spider-man?”

 

“I fell.”

 

“Ah, so that was the big noise,” Black Spider-man says. “I thought someone was puking and then shot themself.”

 

{If only.} [Oh, how we yearn for the sweet release of death.]

Nike doesn’t wait for Wade’s next retort, takes heavy strides towards Black, gripping his shoulders. Whatever he says, Wade doesn’t hear, but he can tell from the vigorous nodding that it must be important. 

 

“Who’s dead? What’s happening? Who are we fighting?” Wade peppers, but neither of the Spider-men responds. Black lifts his wrist and swings away, and Nike lifts his own to do the same, but when he presses the button of his web-shooter, nothing comes out.

 

Nike throws his head back and curses, before deciding simply to walk. 

 

“Where are you going? What’s up with your webs? Are you from this dimension?” Wade tries to grab Nike’s arm, but Nike raises it up before he can.  _ God, what a smell. _ What he notices a little later is the blood running down Nike’s pale skin. “Oh, no,” Wade gasps.

 

Nike sighs, “Please, don’t—”

 

“You’re bleeding!”

 

{You know what this means!}


	6. Peter

Peter’s night/morning was going swell. Sure, his friends had betrayed him by giving in to the seductresses of sleep, but that was okay; they were only human. And they definitely didn’t parkour over Queens, catching enough nightmare fuel to last a lifetime. Peter put it behind him to instead focus on catching baddies which—ignoring his blunder in that alleyway—was very productive. He stopped a handful of burglaries and received handshakes and hugs from loads of people: storekeepers, parents, little kids. One cat even leapt into his arms, something that didn’t happen often enough in his career. All the gratitude made him feel like an actual hero again, like _the_ Amazing Spider-man. It left him so full of confidence that he took no caution swinging over bridges and back again just for the fun of it. Oh, how he missed being a careless, quippy, callous hero.

 

But of course, like most things ever since he turned 19, the mood didn’t last long. Bullets thundered nearby and set his senses off. Thankfully, instead of turning him too skittery to hold onto a web, the adrenaline that rushed through his vessels actually did what it was meant to do–made him faster and more efficient. He landed gracefully (or about as gracefully as he could) on the hood of a sedan, narrowly dodging a bullet fired from the hands of a masked and hooded figure, all black and cheap (reminded Peter of when he was just starting out).

 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Peter said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

 

“Fuck off, Spider!” the figure barked. He shot twice again, which did encite a ringing in Peter’s left ear, but Peter danced around them as dramatically as he could, finding pleasure in obviously being the only one who found this fun. “I-I won’t warn you ag—” His threat plunged into a scream as a bullet struck his shoulder and flew straight out.

 

“Yikes!” Peter said, quickly webbing up both the wound and the pistol that had clattered to the floor. “This is why they keep saying we’ve got to get our gun laws in check.”

 

The figure on the floor groaned, rolled on his stomach in an attempt to crawl away, but Peter launched a web that pinned him to the asphalt . “Sorry, dude, but the cops are gonna wanna see all witne—Whoops!” He jumped over a bullet that would have otherwise gone through his thigh and spins to see another similarly dressed figure reloading his firearm. “Nice shot! I mean, for someone who isn’t biodynamic or anything. Are you? Biodynamic, that is.”

 

The assailant answered with five more shots that made Peter want to quit hopping around and fight properly. The tingling in his limbs kept him going though. It was thrilling to almost die, but in a safe way.

 

He shot a web at the assailant’s arm, yanked him forward and struck his jaw. The person didn’t go down easily though, trying so hard that they actually landed a hit on Peter’s head. Dizzying, but still, fun. Peter gripped the person’s wrist, twisted it around them until he heard an immobilizing crack, before finally webbing them up.

 

Bullets were still being exchanged by the time Peter climbed to the ledge of a nearby jewelry store for a bird’s-eye view. There were five more shooters below and the fight wasn’t going too well; one limped heavily while two others clutched their torsos, sneaking between cars for a better aim. The cars were taking most of the damage. It physically pained him to think of all the people who would wake up in confidence that they had a ride only to find it absolutely unusable. He sighed before hopping off and landing on the between them all.

 

“Hey, look what I can do!” he yelled. Somewhere in the yelling was a silent prayer that God wouldn’t let him fuck this up. He gripped the mouth of a bullet-riddled car and lifted it until rested above Peter’s head and threatened to rip his muscles to shreds. Yeah, he hadn’t done this for a while. “Hang on, hang on,” he breathed. He threw the car up into the air and shot a web that brought it back down and spun it around clumsily, knocking the shooters down. His forearms screamed for the few seconds that he spun the car before it slipped from his grip and crashed into a brick wall. He’d definitely win the Olympic Hammer Throw. “Whoo! Did y’all see that?” he panted, gripping his knees in hopes of keeping his stomach together. None of them saw, unfortunately, but Peter told himself he definitely looked cooler than he felt.

 

He did a quick check up on the shooters before rounding them up and spinning them up with a band of web. He added a bow at the side just to make it look pretty.

 

A single car arrived at the scene, no wailing siren. From the car came a tall man, eyes drooping. The sag in his shoulders stung Peter. His own must have been like that only a day ago, or two (or maybe a week, it’s hard to tell what’s when these days).

 

“Hey, Mister. . .” Peter searched for a name tag. _Jorge_ . “George?”

 

“Khor-khey,” The officer corrected, reaching into the car to get something. Handcuffs, Peter later realised.

 

He had half a dozen questions spurred by the night’s (morning’s?) adrenaline rush, but he was a friendly neighbourhood Spider-man, so he settled for the safest. “How are the kids?”

 

“They’re dead.”

 

Peter scratched the back of his head. Kids were always a universal question when it came to officers. “My, uh, condolences, I think.”

 

“Don’t worry,” the officer sighed as he tore webbing from the first of the shooters. “They’ve been dead for a while now.”

 

 _My uncle died_ , Peter wanted to say, to show he empathized with his loss, but realised it’ll sound narcissistic. He ends up letting out a prolonged, “That’s. . .”

 

“Why don’t you take a break?” Jorge huffed as he pulls one particularly large shooter into the car. The simultaneous acerbity and genuity of his words caught Peter off-guard. “I mean, it’s great that you’re keeping every corner of Queens safe,” he continues. “But who are you really saving here, on an empty street at four a.m. where the only people getting shot are, oh, _the shooters_.

 

“You’re not even gonna stick around to do the paperwork. You’re not gonna have to haul them off to county and follow up on every single development until they finally get a sentence. And even then, all you’re really doing is just chucking them into the hands of some sick sadist getting paid nine-to-five just to beat up anyone who looks at him wrong. Would it kill you to just let some of them go?”

 

Jorge chucked the last of them in and slammed the car door shut. “Forget it,” he sighed. “I bet it’s easy for you. You’ve never had one of your own on the other side of the law. Do you even have kids?”

 

Peter shakes his head. He forgot for a moment that the officer couldn’t even see his face under the mask, but he kept his eyes wide open, face straight like he was 12 and in detention again.

 

“That’s what I thought.” Jorge climbed into the driver side and left Peter standing there like an idiot.

 

And he _is_ an idiot, Peter decided as he darted through the sky. He could have said so many things. He could have told the officer that he already let anyone dealing weed go, since weed was basically almost legal and he’d be a hypocrite for not tying up himself and basically everyone he knew. He also let off minors and seniors and didn’t even go near underground business. He could have said that he knew the judicial system was fucked up, that all he was trying to do was have a safer neighbourhood in ways that didn’t involve gentrification and racial profiling. But instead, he stood silent like a motherfucking shitstain.

 

Those thoughts looped his mind as he swung over Queens, this time no longer so graceful and generous with his leaps. The town’s activity became a buzz again; everything and nothing at once.

 

_If I buy the red one–_

 

_That’s all we need to know._

 

_–and that’s literally insane!_

 

_I have no idea what I’m going to do._

 

And then out of fucking nowhere, ten tons of concrete slammed him out of the sky.

 

Only concrete doesn’t come from nowhere, especially not ten tons of it, and it doesn’t fall from the sky so _why the shit_ did his entire back decide that he was writhing in pain and stop his fingers from reaching his web shooter?

 

His brain didn’t form an answer before he crashed on one roof, ricocheted off another and rolled until he hits a dumpster. Another fucking alleyway. This time, it smelt like alcohol and vomit.

 

Because falling out of the air wasn’t considered bad enough to ruin a day (night?), right in front of him was–

 

“O-M-G, it’s Spidey!”

 

And Peter wished a bullet had gone through his brain instead of having to watch what feels like decades of Deadpool flirting with a minor.

 

Peter’s now got a bloodied arm around the mercenary's neck, and a gloved hand presses his side. He caught yellow and green bits on the glove, but decided he'd rather not know what Deadpool had touched.

 

He'll never say it out loud, but holding onto Deadpool does relieve the weight on his ankles. Peter just wishes he would shut his goddamn mouth.

 

"I know, Yellow!" he says, giddiness taking the speed of words up to eleven. "Helping an injured Spider-man? This is basically the start of every good fanfic. Or like, every would-be-good-but-the-author-can't-decide-on-American-or-British-speech-marks-and-spelling fanfic. I fucking hate Brits, man. The only good thing they ever did was colonize the globe. They basically invented colonialism. That's why I love it when I get to plunge my fists into their necks and it comes out all bloody, hah! I mean," he glances at Peter and clears his throat. "I dream of it, but I would never really. Good guys, aren't we?" He raises his fist for a fist bump. Peter leaves him hanging. He continues, unabashed.

 

"So, uh, what's the deal with the Nike suit? You from this dimension? And what happened to your webs? Is this like, the mid-life crisis arc where everything stops going good for you? Your _Iron Man Three_? You suffering from PTSD? I've got Zoloft in my back pocket, but it's been there for a while and I don't know if it's still good. No, I honestly don't remember that." He says the last part more to himself than to Peter.

 

"Well,” Peter sighs, figuring out the best way to explain it to this trigger-happy maniac. “My Spider-man suit gets itchy–"

 

Deadpool comes to a screeching halt and Peter almost falls out of his arms. "Hold on, hold on, hold on, is this an actual suit, but designed by Nike?"

 

"No, they're just matching. There's nothing special about them. My aunt got them at a thrift store. Very much from this dimension and the webs. . .It's complicated."

 

"Try me. I'm as smart as I loo–Shut up–as smart as I look. Which is very smart."

 

Peter inhales deeply, gazing at rows of tiny stores setting up. The most jarring thing about not sleeping has to be watching stores open when they closed what felt like just ten minutes ago. "I coated the fibers in pico circuits programmed to read the genetic material of previous fibers, then reproduce it. They basically never run out. Downside is that they overheat and block the opening."

 

"That's actually really. . .” he trails off, staring at Peter with what might be surprise under his mask. “Why don't you sell them?"

 

"My ideas?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"And build an industry with my last name in the title, create next-generation technology that puts Tony Stark to shame, but also spend a large portion of the profits fighting lobbyists, building sustainable housing and fixing communities worldwide, then have it targeted by superpowered neo-nazis and end up closing the company to prevent any harm?"

 

"Uh, yeah?"

 

"Seems long.” Peter starts walking again. It hurts without Deadpool on his side, and he’s relieved when Deadpool catches up to support him again. “I also don't know who you even go to to do that."

 

"I know a guy, or like,” Deadpool counts on his fingers. “Three. . .five. . .ten?"

 

"And they've all used your services?"

 

"Come on, who hasn't?"

 

"I haven't."

 

"Because you're not rich yet."

 

"If being rich means being a murderer, then I really don't want any part of it."

 

"Oh, please,” Deadpool throws his head to the side, no doubt rolling his eyes. “Spare me the propaganda. Marx wasn't even that hot. You know who was a real looker? Stalin. Mhmm, that daddy could dictate me in any state."  Peter moves out of Deadpool’s reach and crouches beside a brick wall. “Wha-What’s happening? Are you shitting eggs?” He sits beside Peter and whispers, “ _Can I be the dad_?”

 

How this man’s very existence hadn’t been cancelled by moral guardians, Peter couldn’t understand. “I need to call SHIELD. Do you have a phone?”

 

"What happened to yours?"

 

"My plan ran out months ago."

 

"Oh,"  Deadpool hands him a phone encased in jewels and glitter and unicorn stickers that make Peter jealous. He ignores it though, taps in the two digits and listens to it ring.

 

" _SHIELD's ReBEL Aid. What's your emergency?_ "

 

"I, uh, some broken ribs, maybe a wound, haven't really checked. I just want-"

 

" _If you could just check the number beneath the microchipped patch, I could get your biometrics and send the appropriate equipment to your location._ "

 

"Um. . .” Tony Stark had designed hundreds of cool suits for him, but Peter knew better than to willingly get microchipped by dogs of the state. “My suit doesn’t have any, um,"

 

" _Sorry, if your suit isn't chipped, we'll have to place your call through to the registry to certify you're registered with our agency._ _Please hold._ "

 

Peter sighs and rests his head against the wall. Deadpool’s going off to himself about how spiders didn’t have the self-awareness to be gendered and therefore, all genders could lay eggs. It’s cruel, but there’s a slight desire to bleed to death just to escape the freak beside him. Maybe he’ll find Uncle Ben in the afterlife, and they’ll play Peter-you-have-to-catch-the-ball-not-flinch like they used to. That’d be-

 

" _Can I get the name under which you're registered?"_

 

Peter snaps up, surroundings slamming him with every single detail he doesn’t need. He closes his eyes tightly to focus on getting his name right. "S-P-I-D-E-R-M-A-N."

 

" _Right, just checking. . .Sorry, we don't have anyone registered under that name._ "

 

"Come on, I'm Spider-man!” Peter snaps. “I literally fought for the whole registered biodynamic thing. Can't you check, like, I don't know, Spider-man with a space or-" Deadpool watches him with barely-contained laughter. God, if he laughs, Spider-man will be moral no more.

 

" _Yeah, there is one here, Spider-hyphen-man-"_

 

"Yes! That's it! That's the one!"

 

“ _Unfortunately, we’re going to have to ask you some security questions-_ ” Peter threw his head back and groaned. “ _In order to just make sure you’re, you know, The Spiderman. Okay, so, your favorite thirty-three year old’s name?”_

 

Peter frets his eyebrows. He’s way too tired for this. “Uh, May?”

 

“ _That is incorrect. It’s uh, eight characters, two words, one space-_ ”

 

“Aunt May?”

 

“ _That’s correct. Unfortunately, the password was set to one try so we’ll have to block your account,”_

 

“Block my account!?”

 

 _“For the time being.You’ll have to go in person to any SHIELD ReBELAid in order to-_ ”

 

Peter cuts off and drops the phone with a sigh. Maybe he should have gone with the nightmares instead of swinging around Queens.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Wade

{So the ratio of our chapters to his chapters prior to this was two to four.}

 

[And?]

 

{And the chapters altogether span less two days.}

 

[And?]

 

{And the updates were like, semi-weekly and then disappeared for over a month.}

 

[What is your point?]

 

{I’m starting to think we’re not the main characters of our own universe.}

 

[Yes, that’s called sonder.]

{I’m not trying to be philosophical here! We’re literally going to be pushed on the bus because we’re the fat old guy who brutalizes people for a living while Mr. Anxiety gets the spotlight because he’s still fresh!}

 

[First of all, Spider-man is fifty-seven years old.]

 

{Psht, no he isn’t.}

 

[Second of all, have you considered he gets spotlight because the fat old guy is obsessed with him?]

 

{We’re not obsessed with him . . . are we?}

 

“Listen, I can’t help you guys through your existential crisis,” Wade says. “Our boy is bleeding out on us!”

 

It’s true! The Amazing Spider-man’s blood is soaking through his thick black cotton sweatsuit while he pants against a brick wall, mumbling things about a certain famous brand of microwave rice. Which is sort of cute, sort of kinky, but mainly terrifying as it begins to dawn on Wade that this particular superhero is not immune to unaliving. And these wounds seem to be the kind that progressively worsen without treatment instead of just fixing itself or disappearing in the next scene. 

 

{We can fix him up right?}

 

“I can totally fix him up!” Wade replies, pushing imaginary sleeves up his forearms.

 

Spider-man coughs, and darks stains become visible on the lower half of his mask. “Touch me,” he rasps. “And I will split your spine from your body to see which one heals first.”

 

[I told you, he’s fifty-seven.]

 

“B-But I can’t leave you here to, to,” Oh no, is he stuttering? Wade knows he’s a bit of a fan of Spidey, but he hasn’t really made his mind up on how touched he would be if he was unalived. It’s difficult to understand mortality when you’re constantly swinging between to the supposed confines of it.

 

“I’m not going to die,” Spidey says. “Take me to the Avengers. They’re open.”

 

“They close?”

 

“Of course they close, they’re trying to unionize.”

 

“Huh.” It never occured to Wade that public contract superheroes would need a union, given how frivolous their budget was. Did paying taxes mean paying for the Avengers? Good lord, was he paying for the Avengers?

“Wade!” Spidey snaps. “Avengers, now!”

 

“Fine, geez, you don’t need to yell. Which way do you wanna be carried?”

 

Spider-man pauses, or maybe he’s finally fainted from the blood loss. Oh, that would be really bad. Then he tilts his head up, which is a good sign, Wade thinks. “Over the shoulder, so it looks like a kidnapping if anyone asks.”

 

“Wait, won’t that make me look like the bad guy?” Wade asks. The answer is Spider-man falling on his side, which means he’s definitely fainted and that’s definitely not good. 

 

Lucky for them, Wade’s got a bamf that can immediately get them upstate. So he heaves Spider-man over his shoulder and-

 

{Hold on!}

 

Wade groans, glaring up at the pale yellow text box floating over his head. “What?” 

 

{Are you sure you want to use your only bamf taking this umf to a bunch of even bigger umfs?}

 

“What the hell is an umf?”

 

{Ungrateful motherfucker.}

 

Wade snorts, and then stops himself because he is not and has never and will never be amused by his own visual hallucinations. He hates everything about them and is desperately waiting for the day they disappear.

 

{Wow, you’re being ugly.}

 

[As much as I’d hate to say it, Yellow’s right.]

 

“No, Yellow is never right, it’s always wrong and of course I’m going to use this bamf. You guys act like it runs out.”

 

[It does.]

 

{Single-use pick-up, bro.}

 

[Rarity’s over three thousand.]

 

{Something about that number makes me feel like we missed out on a major Marvel event.}

 

[What major Marvel event could we have possibly- Oh, there he goes again, doing things with our expressed disapproval.]

“You guys are literally trespassers,” Wade hisses as he lands a few feet away from the incredibly ugly, poorly designed, too-many-trees, zero-color base belonging to Earth’s shittiest. “You don’t get a democracy.” 

 

{That’s literally xenophobia.}

 

Wade ignores it. The Avengers Facility is literally so ugly, he finds himself gagging under his mask when he invites himself through automatic doors and is greeted by their female Irish robot slave, which is definitely a raceplay thing.

 

“I’m sorry, but you’re blacklisted,” her voice echoes throughout the hall. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

“Hello to you too,” Wade replies. “Where do I go to drop off a dying Spider-man?”

 

“Please follow the illuminated tiles,” she says. Under his feet, and straight in front of him, the previously-beige tiles glow in every color of the rainbow. “Happy Pride Month.”

 

The tiles lead him to a lab where Black Widow and Hawkeye are sitting on the floor before one human Bruce Banner, tied up in a chair. He notices Wade first and immediately flings himself to the floor, screaming through the cloth in his mouth. Hawkeye snaps his head up and has an arrow notched in his bow faster than Wade can lift a hand. Black Widow is a lot less attentive, thumbs tapping at her phone as she barely acknowledges the commotion. 

 

“I come in peace,” Wade says and signs at Hawkeye. Hawkeye rolls his eyes and signs  _ you’re a dick  _ back. “What? Is this about the time I stood you up?”

 

Hawkeye holds his weapon between his thighs, throwing his hands about with as much fury as the meaning of the symbols.  _ You shot me from a rooftop!  _ Then, as if to make his point, he sends an arrow through one of Wade’s hands before he can respond.

 

Yeah, he’s immortal and can regenerate, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt so much that he isn’t screaming and cursing at the top of his lungs from the pain.

 

{Please, pain is a kink.}

 

[No, no it’s not.]

 

“Can you guys please shut up?” Black Widow says, finally looking up from her phone. “I’m trying to dox the fourteen year olds who hate my look.”

 

“Your boyfriend just shot me!” Wade says, yanking the arrow out of his palm to wave it in her face. “Also,” he chucks Spider-man to the floor. “Dude’s dying.”

 

That gets her to put shove her phone in her back pocket and hurry over to Spider-man. Bruce has nearly made it to the door when Hawkeye grabs the arrow from Wade and launches it only inches from Bruce’s face. He immediately stops squirming in the chair.

 

“Is this one of the timeline where he kills the Hulk?” Wade asks.

 

Black Widow sighs. “No, we’re just forcing him to work against his will. I always forget the word for it in English. . .”

 

“Slavery?”

 

“Yeah! Bozhe moi, we totally can’t let his pseudo-dads find out about this.”

 

“Spider-man has pseudo-dads?”

 

“Can’t let his pseudo-dads find out about what?” Captain America enters the lab, tits first, smoothing his golden-blond hair back with really wide hands that Wade wants all over his neck. “Why’s there an arrow on the ground? And Bruce? And what are you doing here?” Wade waves shyly, batting his eyelashes under his mask in case Cap finally gets a clue. “And, oh my god–” he rushes over to where Spider-man is quickly forming a puddle of blood and may very well be dead. “How could you let this happen, Nat?”

 

“Why are you blaming me!? He’s the one who came in with the kid,” she thrusts a finger at Wade.

 

“Hey, don’t blame me. I literally found him puking his guts out behind a bar,” Wade says. 

 

[No, you didn’t.]

 

“He literally told me to bring him here.” 

 

Cap sighs and runs a hand through shiny locks like he’s in a commercial. “The most important thing right now is making sure Tony doesn’t see this. Bruce, do you know critical first aid?”

 

Bruce yells something muffled by the gag in his mouth, so Hawkeye does him the favor of take it off. “I’m on the ground! I’m stuck in a chair! I’m being held prisoner! This is against my rights-”

 

Black Widow laughs. “They actually removed your rights in the SHIELD ReBEL Act. ‘The Hulk and all of his other identities must be supervised at all times and under no circumstance is to be empathized nor sympathized with.’”

 

He sobs. “I just wanna eat some food. Is that too much to ask for!?”

 

“We’ll give you food if you save his life,” Cap says. 

{Is it me, or is there something incredibly wrong about the Avengers torturing the Hulk?}

 

“Maybe it’s their latest fetish,” Wade whispers. Nat shakes her head at him like she heard him, which is impossible because it’s a known fact nobody can hear him when he talks to the boxes above him. 

 

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Bruce says. His hands are twisting in a weird way that has Wade realizing too late he’s trying to escape while they’re distracted. “I’m a physicist, not a physician.” And with that, the ropes are off and he’s sprinting out the lab. Black Widow gets removes her gun, shooting as she chases him.

 

Cap sighs-

 

{Haha,  _ capsize _ .}

 

[You’re not funny.]

 

-and turns back to Spidey. “I guess we’re gonna just have to let him die.”

 

“Wait, what!?” Wade splutters. “You guys are the Avengers. You can’t just let him. . .not be alive anymore!”

 

“Since when do you care about who dies?” Cap asks, almost genuine.

 

“Since when do you  _ not _ ?”

 

“I do care!” he snaps. “But,” he lowers his voice as though there are other people around, even though Hawkeye’s both deaf and on his phone again. “Tony’s only just gone off his coke again and if he has another panic attack, he will literally sniff as much as he can until he has an aneurysm.”

 

{Is he fucking the guy?}

 

“Oh my god, you’re fucking Iron Man,” Wade gasps.

 

Cap literally leaps to place his hands over where Wade’s mouth should be. “Shut up! SHIELD can’t know,”

 

“I can’t believe you didn’t save yourself for me!” Wade whines.

 

{I can’t believe he’s fucking Iron Man out of all the Avengers.}

 

[I can’t believe we’re gossiping with him over Spider-man’s dying body.]

 

“This is like a weird wet nightmare come true!”

 

“I’m serious.” Cap says. “Now that SHIELD legally owns us, there’s a strict non-fraternization policy that could get either of us imprisoned.”

 

“Either of us?”

 

“What? No! Either of–”

 

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by Black Widow pushing a sobbing Bruce forward by a gun against his head, while he carries packets of blood and clear fluid in trembling hands. “C-Can we have the room please?” he chokes.

 

Neither Hawkeye nor Captain America move an inch. Black Widow nods at Wade. “What?” he asks. “What!?”

 

“We need the room,” Black Widow repeats. “So get out.”

 

{Why only us?} [Because they hate you.]

 

“Psht, they obviously Hawkeye!”

 

“She means you,” Cap says, the damn traitor.

 

“Plus, if someone dies here, we’ll probably get our pays cut,” Black Widow adds.

 

Bruce sniffs, “I don’t even get paid.”

 

“Shut up and fix the boy!” she yells, firing the pistol in her other hand at the ceiling. Bruce whimpers and drops to his knees. “Bye, Redpool,” she says with feigned kindness.

 

Before he can tell her that’s a low joke and she’s cruel and those fourteen-year olds have every right to hate her look without getting doxxed, the tile beneath his feet blasts through the roof (literally) and the cap of his skull shatters into his brain while he’s thrust into the air and their stone porch that snaps his vertebral column in several places. On the spectrum of unalive, he’s only mildly unalive, because when he’s severely unalive, he gets to see his many exes. Now though, he only gets to stare at the pale blue sky until his bones realign and the shards in his brain are metabolised into proteins his neurotransmitters can absorb. At least the boxes are silent.

 

{I told you they were umfs.} 

 

Were silent.

  
  



End file.
